The waves cast her onto the rocks, skinning her knees, shins, elbows. Her thirst was raging, her eyes were cloudy with exhaustion. There were buildings clustered half a mile or so along the coast but when she tried to stand her muscles shrieked and shivered. All she wore was a bikini.
Get up. Get up now!
On trembling legs, her tongue dry as the pumice sold in the minimarkets, she staggered on. No path. Thorns bristled all around, ripping fresh wounds in her legs. Dust billowed from the sere land, coating the blood that streaked in rivulets to her bare feet. Blood the same colour as the poppies sprayed among the scrub. Flies came to feed. Grasshoppers sprang away as she walked.
What was the Greek for husband? For help? For coastguard? For please find him, find my love? She would cry but there were no tears, everything parched. Sharp stones jabbed at the pads of her feet, making her grimace. The gesture caused her lips to crack anew.
Perfection. Lazy days under the brilliant sun. The rickety footbridge from the jetty to the tiny taverna. An aroma of garlic and prawns and wild oregano making her mouth water. Her skin tight with salt and heat. Her hunger for him ever present, ravenous.
Eyes narrowed against the rippling haze, she saw with a punch to her heart that the settlement was unfinished. A ghost resort. Raw breeze-block walls and steel rods. Hotels and apartments just shells, staring at her with blind malice as the wind blew sand and cement powder into her face.
She nearly gave up then. Why keep going when she had lost him? The thought tore at her insides. She wanted to howl, to throw herself down and beat the ground.
Walk. Keep walking.
Counting steps, she followed the rough track, cut to create access to someone’s dream development. Losing count and starting again and again until she reached a tarmac road. There she stood, hesitant, dizzy. Which way? The heat burned her shoulders and her scalp.
They loved the island. Honeymooned here. Returned often. Cistus, broom, vetch and daisies flowering in the dirt. The air perfumed by thyme and sage and eucalyptus. Waiters and shopkeepers greeted them with broad smiles. Tourists were money. And with the country ravaged by austerity, they were the lifeblood of the islands. It was his idea to hire the boat. Named Leucothea, for the goddess who rescued Odysseus from the deep.
Roaring and the blurt of a horn. The refuse truck swept past, trailing a miasma that had her bent double, vomiting into the ditch. Thin yellow bile splashed over the plastic pipes and lumps of concrete, rusting cans, rubbish bags and broken palm fronds. Then voices. Two old Greek men, wizened walnut faces. A small van. Incomprehensible questions. She pointed to her wedding ring, her finger swollen sickly white around it. Then at the sea. Implored them with shaking palms outstretched. Tried to speak – My husband, please save him – but the back of her skull was melting, her knees buckled, and she fell.
Kisses. The salt on his lips, small crystals dried on his chest. The scent of him, briny among the sweet coconut of sunscreen.
Cold white hospital bed, a metallic smell, a drip in her arm, throat full of glass. Dehydrated, punch-drunk with sunstroke. And shock. The soundtrack of the town was too close. The shriek of scooters, the frenzied barking of a dog, car horns, the chatter of sparrows, snatches of mindless bouzouki music and blaring rap, the bass so heavy it thumped through her stomach. Had she told them he was missing? They must find him. She pressed the buzzer.
Walking back to the boat, the earth giving up its scents to the night. Sweet jasmine and fennel, and a whiff of trash from the bins on the road that were alive with cats. Lulled to sleep by the rocking of the ocean, the slap and suck of the waves. She’d never imagined that the trouble with the business would follow them here.
She described it all. The water that rose so quickly, capsizing the boat. How, when she surfaced, she could not see him. They showed her charts. Talked of time and tides. He wasn’t wearing a life vest? Her face flushed. We’d been … making love. Drifting. The land a smudge on the horizon. The sea all theirs.
Is there any sign? He was the stronger swimmer, after all. There had to be hope. She asked every time the police came, but there was no word.
Butterflies bobbed and house martins dipped over the restaurant pool on the day they collected the Leucothea. The sea beyond was clear turquoise. The air busy with the hiss of spume and the sizzle of cicadas. Squeezing his hand, she met his gaze, saw her smile reflected in his.
She wept when they abandoned the search, when they told her gently that his body might never be recovered. The consulate had arranged clothing and essentials, temporary accommodation, her passage home.
The night before the sinking they stopped in a sheltered bay, accessible only by water. Shared bread and olives, wine so cold it hurt her teeth. She kissed his neck, his mouth, his belly. He touched her. She came watching the stars glitter above, the moon casting its silver beam across the oil-dark sea. She never wanted to leave.
They sought her out in the departure lounge. Took her aside. We’ve found your husband.
Her heart burst, the room swam. Thank you, she said when she could speak. I’ll wait, fly back with his … with him.
Cold eyes and the ghost of a smile. He has told us everything.
Drowsy after lunch, reaching for him. The wings of his shoulder blades flinched at her touch. Revulsion in his eyes as he turned. His voice catching: ‘I can’t do this. I thought I could. I’ve tried … but … I love her. I still love her. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.’
She was silent. Stunned, as if he’d hit her. He had promised. They had agreed. He’d said the bitch had gone, left to work elsewhere.
Rage funnelled through her like wildfire. Rushing up her spine, into her neck, exploding in her head.
‘Need a pee.’ He stood silhouetted against the sky.
One shove was all it took.
She scuppered the boat within sight of shore, cruising past the ragged limestone cliffs of the west and on to where the plains began, in striking distance of land. But she had misjudged the demands of the swim, not allowing for the fierce currents that robbed her of progress. The undertow that sucked her back time and again and had her praying for salvation.
Fishermen found him, clinging to a spit of rock miles from anywhere. The policeman drew handcuffs from his pocket. Truly a miracle.
Gooseflesh puckered the honeyed tan of her arms as she held out her wrists. Through the plate-glass windows, beyond the runway, the sea shimmered cobalt, calm and still.